Ecstasy (20 page)

Because, you see, I’d suddenly come into possession of a rather awesome scoop. I knew something that, presumably, the cops
didn’t even know: the name of the creep who had sold the LSD to Shaun Kirtz.

So… what to do? Should I behave like a decent human being and go tell the cops? Or should I sit on the information until Monday
morning’s paper, thereby screwing every other reporter in the state—including, most deliciously, Gordon Band of the
New York Times
—but also, theoretically, setting back the investigation by two whole days?

And what about the fact that if I went for option two and somebody else died in the meantime, I was going to want to jump
in the gorge while slitting my wrists with a rock tied around my neck?

I could go to the police, they’d pick the guy up, and goddamn Gordon would almost certainly get wind of it in time for the
Sunday paper. Or I could keep it to myself, moral misgivings be damned. I could try to track down Sturdivant for an interview
on some pretext—and the odds were that as soon as he figured out where my questions were going, he’d fly the coop. I could
try to talk to his friend Axel, and the end result would probably be the same. I could call Marilyn and Bill and just drop
the whole thing in their laps, and the issue would be out of my hands. But—let’s face it—was that any different from deciding
to sit on the story until Monday? What would Mad or Ochoa do? And did I really want to ask them?

Unable to think of anything better to do, I sat there and swung back and forth for a while. It was thirsty work; I demolished
both my diet Sprite and the rest of Cindy’s, then went back in for more.

At some point, I stopped pondering the question at hand and starting thinking about the creepy dude at the center of it: one
Robert Adam Sturdivant, aka “Sturdy.”

I’d only run into him twice, but his image was rather vivid in my mind—he was, after all, not the kind of character a person
can easily forget. I pictured the bald head and the multiply pierced ear, the bulging biceps and the meaty neck. All in all,
he did sort of add up to a drug dealer right out of central casting.

And then there was the vaguely threatening aura he radiated, as though he’d just as soon eat you as look at you. But at the
same time, I’d also gotten the weird sense that he was desperate to be liked, at least by the female of the species. Maybe
that was one of the perks of the drug-dealing métier; it stands to reason that the guy with the goods can be considered an
attractive fellow, physical drawbacks and all.

Unless, of course, your customers start dying.

Okay, I thought, let’s look at this logically. Did I really think that Sturdivant had concocted the killer LSD himself? Or
had he just gotten it from some supplier, who was either the guilty party or yet another unwitting link in the chain? Was
it possible that this bullnecked lug of a guy had launched some diabolical scheme to knock off the better-looking competition?
And—more to the point—since I barely knew him, why the hell was I even bothering to speculate about it?

But wait—maybe I didn’t just have to speculate. I’d recently run into someone who seemed to know Sturdivant and did not think
a whole lot of him, either. So I grabbed the phone book and the cordless, came back outside, and dialed Lenny Peterson’s home
number.

“Hey, Lenny,” I said when he picked up, “remember that conversation we had at the Deep Lake open house about Rob Sturdivant?”

“Yeah,” he said, “and I think the words I used were
no comment.
”

“Come on, you obviously knew him. And what I’m wondering is… Did you maybe know him because he’s the one who supplies you
with the green stuff you like to smoke for breakfast?”

“How did you hear—”

“It’s what you’d call general knowledge.”

Click.

I tried calling Lenny again, but he wouldn’t pick up. Thus rebuffed, I spent more quality time wondering whether I felt like
being a decent journalist or a decent human being. I’m not sure how long I stayed there, swinging and thinking and sharing
granola bars with my dog. I do recall that at some point I realized that all the time I’d spent staring at a computer screen
had killed off a few too many brain cells. If I played my cards right, I could probably have it both ways.

I informed Shakespeare of this, and I like to think that the way she raised her other eyebrow at me indicated that she was
suitably impressed. Then I put her in the car and drove over to Cody’s apartment, too pumped up to bother calling first.

I knocked, and when there was no answer, I let myself in with my key. Zeke, Cody’s husky mix, came bounding over to Shakespeare
and did the canine equivalent of reciting love poetry. When the two of them finally stopped making ecstatic howling noises,
I noticed the shower running.

Now, this was what I call
excellent.

I made my way toward the sound, and, passing the bedroom door, saw that a T-shirt, shorts, and a pair of white jock-socks
were lying on the bed. Since I was similarly clad, I decided it was only fair that I toss my biking shorts, T-shirt, socks,
and jog bra on top of the pile. Then I snuck into the steamy bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain, and scared the bejesus
out of a naked Irishman.

B
Y MONDAY MORNING
every reporter in New York State was pissed at me—at least that’s how it felt.

My colleagues at other papers were irked because a pissant fish wrapper like the
Monitor
had scooped them on a certain story, headlined
DEALER ACCUSED IN MELTING ROCK MURDERS
. And in my own newsroom, Ochoa was fuming over having a joint byline foisted on him yet again. Never mind that we wouldn’t
even have had the story if it weren’t for my source; Ochoa’s a damn good reporter, but he’s never been one to play nicely
with the other children.

Luckily, he was too busy to stay mad at me for long. Sturdivant being identified as the dealer who sold the drugs had kicked
the case into high gear, and Ochoa was running around like a maniac trying to cover it.

Mad and I, meanwhile, were charged with making sure some other news actually made it into the paper. He was doing a piece
on how Bessler College was launching yet another initiative to make its science departments something better than moronic,
while I was putting together a follow-up story on the Deep Lake Cooling brouhaha, along with yet another Melting Rock piece.
This time, it was just a short one on how a bunch of its suppliers were fixing to sue over unpaid bills. Of course, said assignments
didn’t impede us from soaking up the lunchtime rays on the Gabriel Green, where thanks to a leaky pita I managed to drip a
great quantity of baba ghanoush down my cleavage.

“What I don’t get,” Mad was saying as he bit into his chicken kabob, “is how Miss Journalistic Ethics can rationalize making
some sweetheart deal with her boyfriend.”

“Shhh.”
I looked around, but there was no one within earshot. “Would you put a cork in it? Nobody’s supposed to know.”

“So why’d you tell me?”

“I had to tell
somebody.
”

“Ha. Remember never to apply for a job with the C.I.A.”

“And besides,” I said, jamming a napkin down my front in an effort to rescue my hundred-dollar Lise Charmel bra, “since when
am I the ethics queen? I’m as much of a hack as you are.”

“True,” he said. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Charming.”

“So what gives with this Cody thing?”

“I already told you.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t really listening.”

“Argh.”
I reached for another napkin. “I told you, this kid—”

“This
unidentified
kid.”

“This unidentified kid told me that Shaun Kirtz told her he bought the drugs from Sturdivant. And I didn’t think I could just
sit on it until Monday, because what if some other kid croaked in the meantime? So then it hits me: What if Cody’s my source,
and I’m his?”

“How romantic.”

“Do you want to hear this or don’t you?”

He took another bite. “Do.”

“So I went over to his place and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“Hubba-hubba.”

“The deal was, I’d give him the name of the dealer if he promised to sit on the Melting Rock connection until the paper hit
the streets on Monday. That way, he could pick up the guy and start working on getting him to talk, and—”

“And meanwhile make sure he couldn’t sell any more of that shit.”

“Right. So the cops get their bad guy, and we get to break the story. Everybody’s happy.”

“Except Sturdivant.”

“The poor sweet thing.”

“How much did he get caught with, anyway?”

“Um…a bunch of pot, some ecstasy, acid, mushrooms, prescription pills, you name it. The guy was a walking drugstore.”

“Why don’t people just go into a bar, for chrissake? It’s cheaper, and it sure do taste good.”

“So you’re suggesting alcoholism as an alternative to drug addiction?”

“Hey, baby,” he said with a wink, “don’t knock it till you try it.”

Back at the newsroom, I had five phone messages from various members of the anti–Deep Lake Cooling contingent, but zippo from
the one person I really needed to reach: Glenn Shardik. I tried Lenny at the Benson news service, but if he had any idea what
was up with Deep Lake, he was in no mood to tell me. Benson had yet to hire a replacement for its recently departed vice president
for P.R., so I didn’t have a lot of options for finding somebody to tell me when and if the cooling system was getting turned
back on. Therefore, turning ambitious through sheer desperation, I braved the wrath of the Benson parking police and drove
up to campus.

Shardik’s office is in an aging facilities-maintenance building on the far side of the vet school. Square and squat, it seems
to have been designed for maximum ugliness, and on this point it succeeds spectacularly well. It’s always been amazing to
me that out of what looks like the bureaucratic equivalent of a medieval oubliette sprang a revolution in air-conditioning
technology—or, indeed, anything else.

At Benson, like at all colleges, faculty are the sacred cows; during lean times, in other words, you don’t get to kill them
for food. When budget crises strike, the ax falls on the support staff—and folks who deal with pipes and lightbulbs rather
than live human beings tend to be first on the chopping block.

I mention this by way of explaining why there was a single beleaguered secretary at the front desk trying to cover the whole
building. I told her I was looking for Shardik but—what with the ringing phone and the hold lights blinking on her desk like
a peep show marquee—she was barely listening. She just pulled a pencil out of the hairsprayed helmet atop her head and waved
vaguely down the hall, then answered another call.

“Facilities management,” I heard her say, her voice a delicate balance between boredom and stress. “No, I’m not sure when
it’ll be fixed. Yes, I know it’s been two weeks. Yes, I know it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. Have you thought about getting
a bigger bucket?”

I kept walking. Shardik’s office was at the end of the hall, a private closet amid a warren of partitioned cubicles. The whole
place was deserted; he and his staff were probably off at some meeting on how to salvage their $150 million mess.

Shardik’s tiny room had space for his desk, a filing cabinet, and two chairs, period. I sat down in the visitor’s chair and
tried to decide if there was any point in waiting for him. Since I had no idea when he’d be back, I decided to leave him a
pleading note about how I needed to talk to him ASAP. I scribbled it on a sheet of paper from my reporter’s notebook and dropped
it on his desk, pausing to appreciate the fact that, at least judging by the work of the Sears Portrait Studio, Shardik’s
kids were going to turn out as hairy as he was.

I was just about to pack up and go, when my eyes alit on a fax cover sheet from the Gabriel Police Department. It was perched
atop the mound of paperwork on the desk—Shardik apparently being as well organized as I am—so I almost missed it. But there
it was, the department crest reproduced in grainy black and white.

And since (like every other reporter I know) I can read upside down without breaking a sweat, I can tell you what it said,
typos and all:

TO
: Glen Sherdick, Benson Facilities

FROM
: G.P.D. Forensics

RE
: D.L.C. H
₂
O analysis

PAGES W/ COVER
: 2

I stood there for a minute, not so much wondering whether I should read it as whether I was at all likely to get caught. Deciding
the danger was slim, Miss Journalistic Ethics grabbed the papers and started copying down a list of chemicals that sounded
like they’d eat your innards clean through. Then I put the pages back exactly where I’d snatched them—as though he’d noticed
the difference in all the mess—retrieved the note to Shardik by way of covering my tracks, and hightailed it out of there.

By the time I got back to the newsroom, I was positively giddy. Mad was doing a phone interview with some Bessler prof, and
I stood there practically hopping up and down until he hung up. Then I grabbed him and dragged him into the library.

“Bernier, what’s so—”

“What would you say if I told you I just lucked into getting my grubby hands on the analysis of the Deep Lake Cooling water?”

“I’d say you’ve been a very bad girl.”

“And?”

“And then I’d say you better tell me.”

I brandished my notebook. “You ready?”

“Give it to me, baby.”

“Okay, check this out.” I cleared my throat. “Adipic acid, disodium phosphate, fumaric acid…” I looked up at Mad, who had
a weird expression on his face. If I was looking for horror, I didn’t get it. “Whaddaya think? Sounds pretty awful, huh?”

“Yeah…” He sounded distracted. “What else?”

“Um… sodium, ace… acesulfame potassium, malodextrin, glucose—”

“Hold on,” he said, and started digging through one of the filing cabinets. After a minute he pulled out a clip and scanned
it.